“Elaborate, please. What does it mean to be a Blackthorne?”
He shot her a look. “We’re not—”
“If you say you’re not fascinating, I’ll have to take a drink.”
That made him laugh. “Well, you’re in luck. We might be dull as dirt, but if you need a drink? Whisky flows like water at this place.”
She gave him an appreciative smile as he shifted into gear again and rumbled off the main road onto a side street, then another, then another. Before she knew it, they were on the edge of town at a massive gate, which opened as he pulled up to it, then started up a hill to reach the most stunning three-story, gray, gabled home she’d ever seen.
“Wow,” she whispered, taking in what had to be a fifteen-thousand-square-foot home, with a zillion windows and a wraparound porch that offered unobstructed water views. Surrounded by lush acres of grass and gardens, the mansion was topped with a white widow’s walk perched like a decoration on a breathtaking cake. “This is quite the summer home.”
He downshifted the Porsche as they headed up the drive. “My great-grandfather bought the land and lived in the original house, which is now where my nana lives, right over there.” He gestured toward a precious white Cape Cod-style cottage tucked into a garden. “My grandparents built the main section of the estate, which has obviously been added on to and renovated over the years, mostly by my aunt Claire.”
“The main house is too big for your grandmother?” she guessed.
“Too empty, as she will no doubt tell you. This house used to be full from May to September, but now that everyone is an adult and running businesses, living in Boston and Kentucky and LA? It’s hard to spend a lot of time here.”
“Didn’t you say you were just here for three weeks?”
“I was, but that was because…” His voice trailed off, and immediately she wondered if it had to do with Claire’s leaving. “Phillip had a thing.”
“A thing?”
He laughed. “A fund-raiser he was involved with, and it just seemed prudent for me to work from here. Oh, my cousin Devlin lives in King Harbor, with his girlfriend, Hannah, in a cottage they just bought up in the hills. And Phillip lives at the estate when he’s in town, but I’ll bet my last dollar he’s moved in with Ashley.”
“His girlfriend?”
“Brand-new, but solid.” He gave her a smile. “Phillip and Devlin both recently started committed relationships, so you get to meet their significant others, too, which is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say without irony.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just that no one expected either of them to settle down, or my brother Jason or cousin Ross, but something must have happened this summer, because, wham, the four of them went down like dominoes.”
Was it Claire’s sudden departure? But Jenna had asked him enough about that subject for one day, so she limited her questions to the estate as he explained where the groundskeeper lived and told her about the couple who worked full time as the housekeeper and handyman.
“We have a chef on most nights in the summer, or we can go into town and eat.”
“I’m not eating for a week after lobster and ice cream,” she said as they pulled into a wide stone driveway that led to a separate garage large enough for more cars than she’d probably own in her life. “Oh, is that your grandmother?”
A white-haired woman wearing a blinding-green top and yellow pants was walking along the porch, carrying a watering can. She stopped to water a plant, then looked up, shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun, and waved.
“That’s my nana,” he said, breaking into a smile. “You’re going to love her.”
She was going to interview her, but it seemed prudent not to mention that right now. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
He pulled the car next to a low stone wall and got out fast enough to round the front and get Jenna’s door.
“Thank you,” she said as she climbed out. “For me or the benefit of your grandmother?”
He made a face and pretended to dagger his heart. Then he smiled. “Yeah, both.”
The older woman put down her watering can and walked toward the front, moving quite gracefully for an octogenarian. “Oh, Brock!” There was enough of a musical lilt in her voice that Jenna knew she was delighted to see her grandson. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
“I should have called you, Nana,” he said. “But we made an impulsive decision.”
“We did?” Holding the railing, she came down to the drive, pinning a silvery-blue gaze on Jenna with no small amount of interest.
“Not only didn’t I call, I brought a guest.” Brock had to bend way over to kiss his teeny-tiny grandmother on a crinkly cheek, earning a warm hug around shoulders that dwarfed her. “This is Jenna Gillespie,” he added.
“You don’t need to call, honey. This is your home, too.” She pulled back and turned to Jenna. “And your girlfriend is more than welcome.”
“Oh, thank you, but…” Jenna glanced at Brock, expecting him to jump in and clarify who she was. But he let the misunderstanding go on for a beat or two, smiling a little and leaving Jenna to set the lady straight. “I’m not his girlfriend.”
“Or whatever you kids call it these days.”
Finally, he stepped forward and put his hand on Jenna’s shoulder. “Jenna’s writing a book about the Blackthornes.”
Nana hooted a soft laugh. “I better have my own chapter.”
“I hope you will,” Jenna said, taking the old woman’s hand in hers for a warm shake. “I’m here to talk to everyone and get a genuine understanding of what makes this family so special.”
“Oh, we’re neat, all right. Just like I like my whisky.” She gave a gravelly laugh that revealed teeth far too white and straight to be anything but dentures. “If you want to know about this family, I’m the one to talk to. But I’m Fiona, dear. Not Mrs. Blackthorne. That’s Claire,” she added with an almost imperceptible sigh.
So, another person who missed the elusive Ms. Claire.
“I do want to talk to you, Fiona. I hope we can have many good long conversations.”
She could have sworn she felt Brock stiffen next to her, as if he was ready right then to dive in and referee those talks. But Fiona looked utterly pleased at the idea, patting her silver hair that somehow seemed to make her eyes more gray than blue.
“Let’s start right now.” She took a step closer and slipped two hands around Jenna’s arm, easing her closer. “I love two things in this life. Well, beyond my wonderful family, and right now you’ll share both.”
“They are?”
“Whisky and gardening,” Brock answered for her. “But, Nana, I want to show Jenna the house and—”
“She’ll see plenty of it.” Nana flicked off his argument with a wave of a sun-spotted hand. “I’m taking this lovely lady to my garden for a stroll and a sip. Come with me, dear. Brock will get your bags to your room.” She cleared her throat and muttered, “Or his.”
“Oh, no, it’s not…” Jenna looked at Brock for help again, but he was frowning enough for her to know it wasn’t his grandmother’s mistake about their relationship that bothered him, but the fact that Jenna would be alone without her Blackthorne chaperone. Which was exactly what she wanted. “I’m sure we won’t be long,” she said to him, then turned to the little grandmother. “And I would love to see your garden.”
Brock obviously knew better than to argue with both of them.
As they made their way down a stone path to the cottage they’d passed, Fiona tightened her grip, which Jenna suspected was as much for support on the stones as to express an unexpected amount of affection.
“What a delight to have family here,” she said, adding a squeeze. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Joe and Pam, they work here and keep such good company, and it does seem like there’s always someone coming and going, but…” She added a sad smile. “Some days it seems like more going than coming. Will you be here for a while?”
she asked with enough hope in her voice that Jenna’s heart cracked a little.
“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I have a fairly short window to do my research and write my proposal, so I guess it depends on how many people I can talk to here and how long it will take.”
“Well, everyone in King Harbor will have something to say about Blackthornes.” They reached a white picket fence that ran the perimeter of a garden exploding in color. “Come with me,” she said, opening the gate and gesturing for Jenna to follow. “Let’s get something to drink and sit out in the garden.” She slowed her step and turned to look up at Jenna. “And by ‘something,’ I don’t mean tea and honey.”
Jenna laughed. “Sounds perfect.”
Chuckling, Fiona led her up a few steps to a porch and through a screen door into the cool living room of a classic coastal cottage. White beadboard walls, weathered floors, and a comfy room full of embroidered pillows and golden afternoon sun created a warm and welcoming atmosphere.
“This is lovely,” Jenna said, inhaling a mix of cinnamon and roses in the air. “Such a dreamy cottage.”
“And so much more manageable than the big house,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, I love that place, but it has Claire’s fingerprints on every inch, and it’s a touch more formal for entertaining and such. And it’s so lonely most days.”
“I can’t imagine anything prettier than this.” Jenna walked to a set of French doors that led to a back patio that overlooked the harbor and town below. “This is like a postcard.”
“When Graham and I—the first Graham Blackthorne, that is—first got married, this cottage was all that was on the property. He wanted to build something much grander,” she said, opening a glass cabinet filled with crystal decanters and glasses. “That Blackthorne pride wouldn’t allow him to live in anything this small.”
“Blackthorne pride?” Jenna watched her pour two generous glasses of the liquid gold she’d enjoyed with Brock. “I’ve picked up that it’s pretty strong.”
Fiona gave a sharp laugh. “Indeed. Pride is a character trait that runs strong in their DNA. It’s their greatest charm and worst sin. It’s what motivates them to compete to win, to be the best at whatever they do. It’s also what blinds them to…” Her voice trailed off. “Outside, dear?”
“Sure.” Jenna followed, tempted to whip out her notebook, but instinct told her there’d be time for something more formal. Now, when this talkative and lonely old lady had a drink and an audience, Jenna would get some of her best information. Her mother always said that a notebook was like duct tape on a subject’s mouth.
They stepped to the side of the house through a white trellis into a garden that was clearly well loved. “You keep all this on your own?” Jenna asked.
“I get help with some of the heavier tasks when I’m planting from Joe, the handyman. But the daily upkeep does a body good. I can lose hours out here.” She led Jenna to a grouping of chairs with a small table. “And I do like to have my four o’clock whisky right here and admire my work.”
As she sat down, Jenna accepted the drink the woman handed her, glancing around to take it all in.
“Don’t look too closely at those rhododendrons,” she said. “They’re giving me a time this year. But the larkspur’s pretty, don’t you think?”
“Everything is gorgeous. I can see why you’d spend hours out here.”
“It’s a lovely place to reminisce.” Fiona held up her glass. “Here’s to memories. I hope I can share some for your book.”
“I hope so, too.” Jenna beamed at her, taking a sip and still not used to the hot, smooth taste. “Brock told me this is the only whisky distilled up here in Maine.”
She took a second sip. “And it was the first, made by my husband’s father.”
“Alistair Blackthorne,” Jenna said, getting a little zing of excitement at the possibility of what Fiona might know about this particular piece of family history. “I’ve read a little about him.”
“He was a great man, but he could be a son of a bitch if crossed.” She grinned and took another drink. “Did you read that, too?”
“No,” Jenna said. A son of a bitch who stole a recipe from the other distillery in town? “But I did read that he came over here with his wife, Meredith, from Scotland and brought the family trade of whisky making.”
“Scotch whisky,” she said. “Which is a whole ’nother thing from what you’re drinking right there.” Fiona leaned forward and sent a demanding glare over her glasses. “Except you’re not drinking.”
She smiled and lifted the glass. “It’s potent.”
“I should hope so,” she said on a quick laugh. “Now where was I? Oh, yes, Alistair was a great distiller who lived to the ripe old age of ninety-five and is buried right on this property.” Then she raised both white brows. “So be careful where you dig, dear.”
Jenna swallowed at the warning. “For his grave?”
That earned a sharp bark of laughter and a pointed finger. “I like you. You’re smart. So, here’s my advice, pretty lass. Remember, there’s a fine line between folklore and fact, especially when booze and Scotsmen are involved.” She shifted in her seat. “It’s not a line anyone would want you to cross.”
As Fiona took a deep sip, Jenna inched closer to ask the next question. “Fiona, have you ever heard the rumor that Alistair Blackthorne stole the recipe that became Blackthorne Gold?”
She coughed a little, like the whisky had gone down the wrong pipe. “Yes, my dear, we’ve lived with that cloud over our head for years. Do us all a favor and dispel it.”
Or prove it was true and have a nugget of gold that would sell lots of books and make Filmore & Fine very, very happy. Claire’s leaving had potential, but what if this was the secret Brock’s aunt announced she was tired of keeping when she walked out of her own birthday party?
“It’s really the silliest old legend,” Fiona continued.
“Sometimes they have truth to them,” Jenna said.
“Sometimes,” the old woman agreed. “But you’d have to find a Platt, and that would take an act of God.”
Jenna immediately recognized the family name of Wilfred Platt, the owner of Salmon Falls Distillery and a contemporary of Brock’s great-grandfather. “I assume they’re all dead?”
“Good guess, although the conspiracy theorists say Wilfred disappeared one day and no one ever heard from him again. I think my son Mark once mentioned that he’d been in touch with a Platt, though I can’t be sure.”
“Can’t be sure of what?” Brock walked into the garden, holding Fiona’s whisky decanter in one hand and an empty glass in the other. He filled the glass, refilled Fiona’s, then took a seat next to Jenna, stretching out long legs clad in khaki shorts that revealed muscular, dark-hair-dusted calves.
“Can’t be sure of ancient history,” Fiona said with a smile. “And I’m giving her a lesson in the one thing she needs to know about this family.”
“Don’t tell me,” he joked. “Blackthornes are proud.”
“Pride is a good thing,” Fiona said, swirling her whisky. “Until it’s wounded.”
Frustrated that Brock had shown up and somehow managed to change the subject, Jenna turned back to Fiona. “You were saying your son Mark was in touch with the Platt family?”
After just one sip, Brock put his glass down and stood. “We better get going, Jenna. It’s about time for Nana’s afternoon nap.”
Whoa. Was that because his father was mentioned, or because he didn’t want her near this Platt family history? He couldn’t keep her from it forever. But she stood, not wanting to argue the point now.
“Can I come back and visit you in the next day or two?” Jenna asked, hoping to do that without an escort.
“My dear, I’m here every day and every night. All alone.” She added a meaningful look to Brock. “I hadn’t expected it to be quite this quiet this summer, but with Claire gone…”
“We’ll be around,” Brock said quickly, putting
a hand on Jenna’s back to lead her out. “You get some rest now, Nana. Bye.”
Jenna blew her an impulsive kiss, which made the older woman laugh, then let Brock usher her to the front.
“I’d love to show you around the house now,” he said.
“Maybe later? After I get in my room, I have a little research to do.”
He slowed his step. “Jenna, I guarantee you that you’re wasting your time pursuing this stolen-recipe angle. It’s a dead end.”
She searched his face and could have sworn she saw that same glimmer of fear. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
His jaw clenched just enough for her to know that if she depended on him, she’d get nowhere. She had to think of some way around that.
But if she succeeded in uncovering the truth and the recipe was stolen, she could kiss Brock Blackthorne goodbye…which was probably a better option than kissing Brock Blackthorne for fun.
But for the moment, there would be no kissing, just lots and lots of hunting for the truth.
Chapter Eleven
“So the ugly rumor is true. You are in town.”
Brock gave his barstool a little spin to come face-to-face with his oldest brother, Phillip, who sauntered across one of the many boldly patterned rugs that added to the luxurious atmosphere of the Vault. But his words didn’t subdue the sound of happiness in his brother’s voice, which matched the gleam in his eye when he glanced at the woman on his arm.
“Brock!” Ashley broke away from Phillip to reach out and give him a warm hug. “How awesome that you’re back so soon.”
He gave Ashley a quick embrace and held up knuckles to Phillip. “See? That’s the way you greet someone, dude. Not ‘the ugly rumor is true.’”
Phillip laughed. “She’ll teach me manners eventually. But, seriously, you just left King Harbor after almost a month. Is there another brand crisis I don’t know about up here?”
“Oh, there’s a crisis, all right,” Ashley teased, giving him a playful jab with her elbow. “Nana told me all about her.”
Brock drew back. “What did she tell you?”
Brock Page 9
